Stranded
by zalazny
Summary: LOST crossover The conference in Australia had been dull, he expected the plane home to be as well. Now Greg Sanders is stuck on a strange island, that grows more dangerous by the day.


Disclaimer: I own neither CSI nor Lost. sigh.

Author's Note: I hope that if I put this on the site I'll be more motivated to work on it.

_The plane bucked through the air, turbulence jerking it to and fro. The man in the row behind him assured a nearby woman that it would be fine. Hah. Easy for you to say, you probably don't get air sickness, he thought grumpily. He glanced at his companions, opened his mouth to complain, and another jolt sent him reeling nearly out of his seat. A voice came over the intercom, requesting everyone put their seatbelts on. Moments later another jolt sent several people flying into the ceiling. He was one of them. Okay, he thought, should have listened about the seatbelt...why aren't I panicking? I'm going to die... An earsplitting crash banished his thoughts, replaced immediately by a huge sucking, noise was everywhere, screaming and shouts, yet another jolt sent him rolling under his seat, something connected with his head..._

_Darkness..._

Movement awakened him. He tried half successfully to open his eyes, managing to squint through the dim light. He was still caught slightly under his seat, dangling from what would have been the floor had his entire surroundings not been turned upside down. And someone was searching his pockets.

"Wh-wha-?" He coughed and tried again. "Wh-what happened?" Whoever was searching him reared back in surprise.

"Son of a-------! You're alive!" The man ran a hand through his hair, rocking back onto his heels.

"I-I think so..."

"Damn..." The man got up, stunned. "I gotta get someone.." And took off. He tried to get an idea of his surroundings. He was in a plane. _We were in Australia. We were coming back, going to catch a connecting flight. _He looked around for his colleagues, his head spinning slightly when he turned it. He didn't see anyone he knew, but an arm was hanging grotesquely across the seat ahead of him. He wriggled slightly in disgust, accidentally freeing himself from the chair's hold. He tumbled to the, well he supposed it was technically the ceiling.

"Ow." He took advantage of the differing view to search once again for his friends. No one.

"He's over here somewhere. He was hangin' from the ceiling, trapped under a seat I guess... Damn, where is he?" The voice drifted from further down the aisle. He recognized the southern accent of the guy who had 'found' him. It was answered by a second voice.

"I don't see anyone. How can anyone in here be alive? We've been here for almost twenty-four hours."

He decided to be helpful and managed to wave his arm groggily in the air. "Over here," he croaked. His head was pounding now, his tumble from the seat seemed to be catching up with him. He felt arms pull him up, two people were dragging him from the plane. The second voice was speaking again, this time to him.

"Hey, you have to stay awake now, 'kay? Don't close your eyes, just remain conscious." The voice was fading, darkness settling in. "Damn, he's going under. C'mon, stay awake. What's your name?"

"G-Greg Sanders." And then blackness reigned.

Greg's eyes flickered open. A familiar face loomed above him. "Greg, you ok, man?" Nick asked.

"I was in a plane crash, I woke up upside down with someone stealing my wallet. Yeah, I'm good," Greg replied, managing dazed sarcasm. Nick chuckled.

"Lucky you. I woke up in a tree! But, honestly man, we thought you were dead!"

_We._ "Grissom...is he okay?" He remembered the arm he saw in the plane and felt a wave of sickness sweep over him.

"Hah, I'm starting to think it's impossible to kill that guy. Barely a scratch on him. He and I were both pulled out of the plane as it crashed, I guess. He's off looking for his luggage." Nick scratched at a cut across his chin absently.

Greg struggled to sit up. They were sitting on a beach, the plane hull to his right, the sea directly ahead of him. "Uh, Nick? Where are we?" The CSI shrugged.

"A couple others went to find the cockpit a couple of hours ago. Found a transceiver, some guy is trying to fix it."

"That didn't really answer my question, Nick." Nick opened his mouth to reply when a man with short dark hair strode up to them.

"Oh, you're awake. I was just coming to check on you. You okay?" he asked. His voice was familiar as the second person in the plane. Greg nodded.

"I'm okay. Thanks" he murmured, still pondering their whereabouts. The man smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

"Hey, no problem. I'm Jack," he replied. "You're gonna wanna take it easy for a while, I think you've got a mild concussion," Jack added, vaguely pointing to Greg's head, which chose that moment to give a painful throb, accentuating Jack's point.

"I'm Greg. You're a doctor?" he asked, forgetting he had already told him his name. Jack nodded.

"Yeah. What do you guys do?" he directed this question at both of them, including Nick into the conversation.

"We're forensic scientists. I'm a crime scene investigator and Greg works with DNA analysis," Nick replied. "I'm Nick Stokes," he added. Jack nodded.

"Nice to meet you. Forensics, eh? Cool. I-" He was cut off as someone down the beach called his name. He grinned apologetically. "I gotta go." He turned to Nick. "Make sure Greg doesn't move around to much for a couple of hours, k?" Nick nodded and Jack trotted off.

Grissom crossed his arms, cocking his head in annoyance. "Look,' he said. "That's my case." He had already found his luggage and Nick's. He had seen them drag Greg out of the plane about an hour ago, and he had felt a wave of relief wash over him. He supposed he would have to keep an eye out for Greg's bags too. But right now he had his own problems to deal with.

Sawyer flicked his cigarette aside and grinned. "Now how do I know you're tellin' the truth? You could just be lyin' to rob me of my newfound treasure." His southern accent reminded Grissom vaguely of Nick. Grissom sighed.

"I has my name on it." He pointed to the small inscription on the silver suitcase. Sawyer squinted down at the name then dismissed it and opened the case, surveyed its contents.

"Fine, it's your case. But what are you going to give me for it? And what the hell is all this stuff anyhow?" He raised an eyebrow at Grissom, who returned the favour.

"I'm a crime scene investigator, that's my kit. And you get nothing for it, it's mine." Sawyer chuckled and shook his head.

"A crime scene investigator? That's a job? Huh. And what was an investigator such as yourself doin' down under? Some kangaroos get murdered?" He laughed, then noticed that Grissom wasn't looking at him, but over his shoulder. Despite his better judgement he turned to see what he was looking at. "What---?" When he turned back Grissom was walking away, case in hand. Sawyer swore.


End file.
